


This Tangle of Thorns

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture of Jaqen's developing relationship with Arya, in the tradition of Nabokov's <i>Lolita</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	This Tangle of Thorns

 

> Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
> 
>  
> 
> \- Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_ , 1958.

Arya Stark was dead, as dead as Arry, as dead as Jaqen H'ghar once was. Someone else had her name now – a man learned things when he was away for so long – as she would soon have the names of others, others as dead as Arya Stark.

From time to time he wondered what this imposter Arya looked like but he knew that anyone else, anyone who wasn't his little no one, would pale in comparison. To him it didn't matter whether she was some comely low-born girl, her family paid handsomely to keep quiet, or some squandered beauty, a high-born orphan grateful to even be alive. Whether she was striking or not, whether she had even the barest passing features of Eddard Stark's strength and Catelyn Tully's grace, it didn't matter to him. Let some other girl, let any other girl, take the name... they would still be only a shadow of its former owner.

The day the Eddard Stark and his house arrived in King's Landing, Jaqen had the privilege of being in the city as well. The long and sordid _why_ behind that assignment was the eventual tie that drew him into the tangled Stark affair. On that afternoon, he lingered near one of the walls, among throngs of fellow onlookers, as the processional rode through the city. The queen and her ladies rode covered, but the king and his illegitimate heir rode proudly in front. He'd never been impressed with nobility, nor the wish to gain it, and it didn't seem he was entirely alone that afternoon in his disdain. Then there was the Hand of the King himself, looking as lost as any Northern might that far from the approaching winter, with his daughters.

Jaqen's eyes lingered briefly on the older girl – the one apparently betrothed to the royal bratling – a perfect image of the future princess, and he was almost moved by the look of naïve adoration she shed on her future husband. She was, in all her trembling beauty, absolutely terrified. Anyone could get lost looking at her, and he was sure a number were, but he quickly moved on to the dark, round-eyed girl riding next to her. The sister had probably been looked over her entire life, left in the shadow of the elder sister's beauty and charm. But there was something wild about the little one, something elusive and devastating and terribly aware. He could almost see the faint iniquitous glance, the sly smirk that played at the corner of her lips, like she was the only one there aware of what a great charade this was and completely unamused by it all.

Once they passed from sight, Jaqen slipped back through the crowd, having no need to watch the knights and their squires and the rest of the households that made the trip from South. He saw all he needed to.

Looking at her now, it was sometimes hard to pinpoint exactly where the changes lay. She still carried the same danger in the darkest part of her eyes, the same smart quirk of her lips, and she still looked at him from time to time like she adored and disdained him in equal amounts. She'd grown, though not by much, and he would hazard to say that she gained it all during the time she'd been here at the temple. Her hair was longer now, nearly as long as it was the first time he saw her, though she left it loose now, falling straight down to her shoulders. The lithe muscles in her arms and legs, which started to develop during her dancing lessons with a certain other Braavosi, strained now under more extensive training, though she never seemed to lose that lightness of limb that she had when she first rode into King's Landing.

The rest was as fugitive as her moods, and he sincerely hoped he would never come to know it completely. He knew she questioned her place here because she'd made those fears known to him, but he'd watched her – he'd always watched her, even when she didn't know his face from any other man in the world – and he knew what gifts she possessed. Bringing her here was a risk, but it was one he was willing to make for her. Someone as unrestrained and determined as her could easily fail here, but Jaqen saw beyond that. He was the one who saw the fire burning in her, yearning to get out, he was the one who knew of her true nature.

In a crowd of soldiers there might have only been one of her kind – even men fighting for their families, their honor, didn't have the kind of fervor that these had. It took more than just patience and a steadiness of hand, it took a true love of the art itself, and a respect for the balance between life and death. Being able to accept that death came for all men in their time – not before, not after – and being the physical hand of death was a privilege not to be taken lightly. He watched her long enough to know that churning under the cold Northern presence, the steely gazes and playful smirks, his little no one had all those qualities.

Even now, when she was merely tiptoeing easily around the pool – her shoes were cast off in a corridor, and she'd rolled her pants up to the knee – he could see the innate yearning for danger that flowed in her veins. She'd served people around this pool, she knew what just a little slip could do, yet she slipped and twist around the marble figures on her way around and around the pool, just because she had nothing else to do. With most of the gods, she could delicately step between their feet, or balance herself with the Maiden's arms. She had to cling to the Stranger's stone robes to slip around him, her lissom body fitting against him and then ducking and darting between the others. At any moment she could slip, fall, and be done... but this is what she did when she was bored, instead of studying her languages or picking up a book.

It was the purest form of the art he'd ever seen in one body, all concentrated down into the impish little girl. Jaqen kept his distance not because of some noble promise to keep her safe – he'd abandoned that promise by bringing her here – nor did it have anything to do with her age or her sex or that she hadn't come to maturity yet. He wasn't an honorable enough man to care about any of those things. He'd tried so hard to keep her at arm's length because he knew what she was capable of. He didn't want to stand in the way of that and he worried that if they became entangled in each other, that was exactly what would happen. But then she paused, hanging off of Bakkalon's outstretched arm, with her hair falling in front of her eyes, and looked over at him watching her from the wings as if she had always been aware of his presence. Precariously teetering on the edge, she brushed her hair out of her face and cast that cutting smirk in his direction, and he knew he was already too late.

Were it any other girl, any other smirk, he may have been able to turn away. But this was the spirit that swept into his life, and this was the one he'd be damned for. One day he would take a promise from her, as he had not long ago offered one to her, and demand that she came to him always in that face.


End file.
